


Good morning.

by vflower



Category: Vocaloid
Genre: dying. i want to die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 14:24:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9127648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vflower/pseuds/vflower
Summary: In the aftermath of the mansion, an unnamed protagonist tells a story following another character.





	

Good morning.

You’re awake by now, staring up at the ceiling. Something is telling you to get out of bed, but you can’t manage to tear yourself away from the warm security of your blankets. I wish I could tell you to get up. I wish I could surpass that boundary. I want to, again, feel some sort of warmth, I want to feel you there. 

But you’d never know. It’d never mean anything to you if I did. I might as well not exist. You’re just sulking in bed—mumbling every once in a while—I don’t want to invade your privacy, so I stay my distance, a couple metres away, but always here, always watching… I think, anyway. Maybe it’s all a post-death hallucination. One I’ve been spending years in, never leaving, trapped.

You got up while I was thinking. I hurry to rush after you. You have to go to work, so you get ready. I notice you didn’t take anything with you to eat, and I’m worried that you’re not taking care of yourself lately. I’ve been watching you long enough that I can tell that the way you smile at that other early worker is sickeningly fake. But he doesn’t notice. He’ll smile and wave back at you, his eyes passing right over me. Right through me? Either way, I’m nonexistent, a sort of silent trailer as you go through your daily life.

I saw a couple other people that were with us in the mansion, but you lost contact with them as we went through the years. I’ve tried finding them again on my own, but I get lost—I’m only familiar with your part of the city, and you seem to have separated yourself away from anything that reminded you of them. Maybe you text them. Maybe you have pictures of them plastered around your house, but I can’t stand to look at anything that would reflect. 

It’s too weird to not see myself. I don’t remember if I show up, actually—but I know I don’t to you, and that’s really what matters to me.

The door of your shop is flung open as you get there. You get to work organizing the stems—you’re still not entirely sure what any of them are, but the books I wrote are kept firmly in a drawer, and you refer to them when you don’t know. It’s embarrassing considering how much I learned in the time since I wrote them, but it’s basic, and it helps you, and it makes you happy, so I can’t really complain.

Some of the things I grew are already long gone. Sometimes you mix them up with other plants and sell them, and later when you notice you get this look on your face that you regret being alive. I’m always there, of course, and I tell you it’s okay even though I have to choke it out with a whine and you never hear. 

I wish you would meet the others again. I wish everyone could sit around, listening to the guitarist. I want to hear everyone ramble. I want to hug you and I want to be alive and I wish nobody would ever have died. I wanna hear people reminisce on the times we had there—in a good universe, in a time nobody ever left. 

Your hands are shaking pretty badly as you handle a bouquet. I really like what you’ve done with it. The light is coming in at a nice angle, and you look calm and content. I’ll just stay here all day, watching you work, thinking—

The last customer comes in for the day. It’s one of the girls from years ago, come to pay you a visit.

Your smile is the best part of today.


End file.
